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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143797">One night, among many</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorteMistrata/pseuds/MorteMistrata'>MorteMistrata</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Im a baaaddd guyyy trope, M/M, like the i fucked your best friend cause I was mad trope, so like one night stand trope</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-08 23:34:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,497</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143797</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorteMistrata/pseuds/MorteMistrata</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“Geralt’s two days ride from here.” Lambert looks like he’s just eaten a lemon, as if the words are bitter to admit to. “We just left from the keep, so he’s not far. You could catch up, if you wanted.”</p><p>“If I wanted,” Jaskier echoes. He adjusts his hair, slings his lute over his shoulder. The coin inside it jungles hollowly. “I’ll think about it.”</p><p>Or, </p><p>Jaskier gets back at Geralt by sleeping with his brother.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>122</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>One night, among many</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superherogeek1/gifts">Superherogeek1</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>So Uh,,, yeah I do have several other unfinished multichapter stories but this draft has been sitting mostly finished in my google drive for like,,, months. So take it. Take this fic and give me validation. If I get enough, I may write a second chapter,,,, maybe.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Jaskier is not looking for trouble. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or at least, he’s not looking for the kind of trouble he can’t get out of with some easy flirtation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s been a month since the mountain, and he feels lost. He bounces between taverns, mostly in towns he’s visited many times before, plays his most popular songs, and buries the simmering hurt and anger in the arms of whoever welcomes him, be it a busty barmaid, or the silk trader who provides him with new lute strings. He is decidedly </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> traveling the continent, searching for misguided revenge. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, of course not. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even though Geralt’s last parting words are often the last thing he thinks of before falling asleep; even though he knows he’s got enemies that he can’t hope to handle without his presence; even though Jaskier can’t decide if he hates him or loves him, or feels both in equal measure- he does not want to be the lesser man. It’s best to wait for Geralt to realize his folly, and to apologize on his own terms; except that it’s been twenty years, and Geralt still hesitates to call Jaskier his friend. So how long will it be before that apology comes? Will he be on his deathbed, old and withered when Geralt finally finds the words? Will he feel his regrets as acutely as the weariness in his bones after days of travel?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>These thoughts do little to dissuade the horrible, very bad idea that arises when he notices a Witcher sitting in the corner booth. His two swords are propped up against the table beside him, and his yellow eyes are focused on his half finished meal. He looks entirely uninterested in the merrymaking around him, out of place amongst the warmth, and fading daylight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I should fuck him. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s a common trope, really, to go after your man’s best friend, or lacking that, a brother, in a ploy for revenge, but Jaskier presumes that the person isn’t usually this handsome. Jaskier finishes his set, promising to his audience that he will eventually return. He grins, orders two ales, and slides into the chair across from the witcher. The man bristles, apparently believing his rueful glare will serve to scare Jaskier off.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier makes himself comfortable, and pushes one of the drinks over as a peace offering. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re a witcher.” He says. The man does not share the same white hair as Geralt, but has the same yellow eyes and wolf medallion hanging from around his neck. His hair falls in a sharp widow’s peak that draws attention to his sharp eyes, and the sardonic twist of his mouth. “Do you know Geralt of Rivia?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fuck off.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hmm, not yet,” Jaskier drawls. It is the sort of thing that most sane men would not say to a man who could kill them as easily as one could swat a fly, but he’s never been one for overthinking, or at least, not on matters that concern his dick. He picks up his drink, swirls it, takes a sip and smiles like it doesn’t taste only slightly better than piss. “See, if you know him, I have a proposition for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man surveys him, eyes flicking from the lute slung over his back to the unbuttoned top of his doublet. He settles back into his chair, and crosses his arms. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>Yes</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” He says, as if admitting their acquaintance is some difficult hardship. “I know him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m Jaskier,” He says, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “You might have heard some of my songs, namely-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“‘Toss a coin’? Yeah, I’ve heard it. You’re Geralt’s bard, aren’t you? Why aren’t you off annoying </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We parted on bad terms, and sir- sir-” He pauses, gesturing for the witcher to fill in the blank.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The witcher looks- not exasperated, per se, but reluctantly entertained; as if the smile pulling so very minutely at the corners of his mouth is some form of strange and painful torture. “Lambert.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Lambert,” Jaskier says, enthusiasm making his voice far warmer than he would normally ascribe to a stranger, unless intending to bed them. But that is what he’d intending, isn’t he? “You’re aware that I’m a poet? Well, it would be rather poetical, that is, ascribing to certain popular cliches common in revenge tales if you would-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sleep with me.” Jaskier says, his voice a little too hopeful to be truly seductive. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert looks at him with one eyebrow raised. The scar running over his eye is on the one opposite of Geralt’s own, and said eye is indeed the same golden hue, but that’s where the similarities come to an end. His widow’s peak, and dark hair are a sharp contrast to Geralt’s pale, long locks. His armor, with hints of forest green and wine-dark blue, seem to recant Geralt’s own monotone wardrobe. Even without the added bonus of achieving an admittedly petty revenge, Jaskier would’ve wanted to bed him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You want to piss off Geralt?” Lambert asks. “Have some lover’s spat and he got tired of you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Something like that. But if that’s all I was after, I’d go looking for Yennefer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So why?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier shrugs. “You’re here, aren’t you? And I’d imagined it wouldn’t be too difficult to convince you to put your dick in my ass, but-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Aren’t you a poet? Filthy mouthed-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I saw you sitting in the corner, all brooding and witchery, and I decided that rather than spend half the day propositioning you like I would some noble maiden,” Jaskier’s voice is low and even, as if discussing the price of a bolt of fabric, or something similarly mundane. “I would simply ask. Now, I do have a show to finish, so what’s it to be?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert laughs. The sound is harsh and loud, and startles the drunkard at a nearby table out of his stupor. “Sex is sex, innit? And you bought me a drink.”  He stands, collecting the bundle of what looks to be harpy talons from the seat beside him, and slings his swords back over his shoulder. “I’ve got a room.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier follows him up the creaking stairs to a room more fit to be a broom closet than anything else. There’s hardly enough room for the bed and looking glass leaning haphazardly against one wall. Lambert is less bulky than Geralt, more lean with an obvious predilection towards speed over strength, but even so, the roof is only a hands’ breadth or two from the top of his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier slides his lute under the bed as Lambert shuts the door, and then launches himself at him. His fingers dig into his leather armor, pulling him close as he strains to kiss him. That too is easy. Although Lambert seems bigger, likely a side effect of that intimidating power all Witchers seem to exude, he’s really only an inch or so taller than Jaskier. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That first kiss is hesitant, like testing the waters before fully committing. Lambert let’s Jaskier take the lead until one of his hands creeps up to Lambert’s neck. He opens his mouth slightly, an invitation, and Lambert presses back. The back of Jaskier’s knees hit the bed, and he falls, the hand still curled in Lambert’s armor pulling him down with him. Lambert thrusts his tongue into his mouth, taking Jaskier’s lip between his sharp teeth. Jaskier moans into his mouth, this time pulling him closer as Lambert shifts downwards, pressing those sharp teeth against the smooth expanse of skin beneath Jaskier’s ear. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well? You still want me to fuck you?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier is not supposed to be tender here. Sweetness does not have a place in one night stands and rushed physicality. He prefers it, if given the choice, but doubts that Lambert would allow it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Let me get my boots off,” He says, voice low and husky. “And you can finish what you started.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert pulls back, standing as far as the room allows for Jaskier to hastily unlace and kick his shoes off. For a moment, Jaskier is unsure if he will follow suit, if he prefers to stay dressed to keep this as quick and impersonal as possible. Then he licks his lips, and kicks his boots off, and begins to take Jaskier apart. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His fingers are calloused in ways that differ from Jaskier’s own; the lute and sword make their marks in different ways. Lambert plucks the doublet loose, his fingers pulling insistently at the clasps until they come free as Jaskier runs his fingers against Lambert’s chest. He knows these straps from years of helping Geralt to the bath, of cleaning up injuries after horrid battles, and it is easy to push them aside, to loosen the bindings to find an old, embroidered tunic beneath it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s yellow. A color he didn’t expect, and it makes him pause for the smallest sliver of an instant as Lambert shoves his pants down. Jaskier kicks them all the way off, and falls to his knees, undoing Lambert’s laces with his teeth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The witcher groans, hands hovering behind Jaskier’s head, as if unsure if he should touch him. Jaskier reaches up, and kneads his ass, his breath and the promising heat of his mouth coming close to but not quite touching Lambert’s dick through his smalls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“All this for me?” Jaskier teases as he pulls himself back into the bed. The only way the two of them will fit in the pitiful thing is on top of each other, but Jaskier doesn’t mind. Lambert sits beside him, and manhandles Jaskier onto his lap.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“All for you.” Lambert confirms, voice low. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier does not let his fingers linger on the thin, pale scars that wrap around his bicep and curl into his back. Instead he pushes Lambert back onto the bed, and straddles his waist as he leans in close for a kiss. Lambert smells of sword oil and sweat, but fresh sweat; not the odor of clothes gone too long without a wash, but of new exertion. It’s pleasantly grounding as he reaches a hand down between them to palm Lambert through his smalls. As he presses his tongue into his mouth, tasting the remains of that horrid ale along with the remnants of his dinner, Lambert growls, grips Jaskier by the waist, and flips him like his weight means absolutely nothing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s an interesting contrast, his lithe figure, and the ease with which he moves him. Lambert ruts against him, his erection pressing against Jaskier’s inner thigh. He was going to settle for something simpler; hands or mouths, but at the feel of it, he knows that he’ll regret not feeling him inside. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oil,” Jaskier pants, as Lambert sucks a hickey into his neck, his hand expertly reaching into Jaskier’s smalls to grip his cock. “There’s oil in my lute case.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“For the lute?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ha, no,” Jaskier cuts himself off with a sharp gasp. He uses his foot to drag his bag over, and plucks the small vial from a side pocket with ease. “It’s for pretense. Easier to say it’s for the lute than for my ass.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert pulls the cork free with his teeth. “Smart.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He dribbles the oil onto his fingers, hooks Jaskier’s leg over his shoulder. His finger presses against Jaskier’s hole. Jaskier pulls him into another kiss that he works hard to keep in control of as Lambert works him open. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He loses. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert works quickly. He crooks his fingers experimentally until he finds Jaskier’s prostate, nods and then ignores it as he changes two fingers for three. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on,” Jaskier whines. “Fuck me already.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hmm,” Lambert hums, flexing his fingers slightly. His fingers are thick, and Jaskier feels their loss keenly when he removes them. He pours the remaining oil on his palm, rubs up and down his length once or twice, and then drags Jaskier closer. “Beg for it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re a twat,” Jaskier says as Lambert rubs the tip against his entrance. The promise of his length leaves makes his insides twinge, and he huffs. “Alright, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please, Lambert won’t you fuck me</span>
  </em>
  <span>?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The words are meant to be somewhat sarcastic, but the sudden thrust of Lambert’s hips, the tip of him pressing into Jaskier, makes his final words jump in pitch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please, be a good boy for me, </span>
  <em>
    <span>please</span>
  </em>
  <span>?” Jaskier doesn’t mean to beg or dirty talk, but the words come so fast and freely, it’s like water from a spring.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like a switch being flipped, Lambert starts to thrust. He moves shallowly, before deepening, hitting that spot deep inside of him with a strict insistence that refuses to let Jaskier get used to it. He reaches for Lambert to pull close and savor that full feeling, but Lambert draws his hands above his head, kissing him as he pins him down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier babbles. He’s not sure what he says, per se, but he knows his mouth keeps moving, and that whatever is coming out serves to make Lambert go at it harder. That devilish mouth does sinful things to Jaskier’s throat and chest, his teeth tensing against Jaskier’s nipple as he frees a hand to tug Jaskier’s dick. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s not quick to spill. He’s not.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Lambert undoes him so easily that just for a moment, he considers that he might have been following the wrong man all these years. It’s a half thought, not even partially serious, but he feels guilty for it nonetheless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jaskier clenches down on him, back arching off of the rough sheets as he spurts across his chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert snaps his hips, once, twice, and then pulls out, painting Jaskier’s stomach with his spend. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They lie together for just a moment. Jaskier basks in the afterglow, and Lambert lays still, and heavy above him. He rolls over, and the two of them lay pressed together until the cramped bed grows unbearably uncomfortable. Jaskier wonders what Lambert’s thinking. He wonders what </span>
  <em>
    <span>he’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> thinking, sleeping with Geralt’s brother. How can this end in any way but tragedy?.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I, uh, I should get back for my next set.” Jaskier says, sitting up reluctantly. He pulls his chemise from the floor, uses it as a rag, and then hands it to Lambert before dressing as neatly as he can. A quick look in the glass shows that he still looks thoroughly fucked, but he imagines that they were loud enough that it won’t be much of a surprise. “It was nice to meet you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Geralt’s two days ride from here.” Lambert looks like he’s just eaten a lemon, as if the words are bitter to admit to. “We just left from the keep, so he’s not far. You could catch up, if you wanted.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“If I wanted,” Jaskier echoes. He adjusts his hair, slings his lute over his shoulder. The coin inside it jungles hollowly. “I’ll think about it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lambert nods, and then starts to redress, clearly done. Jaskier can’t resist. He kisses lambert one more time before slipping back into the Tavern proper. </span>
</p><p>
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